Perspective

Let’s put this into perspective:

I am only one broken, bruised girl.
I was never force fed heroin, or tied to a bed.
I was never sold for half a million dollars and I was never transported by filthy men to make up their wages with my body.
No.

I was a child.
I was force fed dinner seasoned with tears, and I held the responsibility of tucking my brother into his bed.
I was never worth a penny and I transported myself down the road to earn a couple dollars with my own two hands.

Their bodies glisten in the basement lights,
And you’ll shoot the men down with your two fingers shaped into a gun.
You’ll carry them to safety all the while whispering, “you’re safe now. It’ll be okay.” In their drugged up ears.
You’ll lay them down and tuck them into a childhood bed, sitting watch all through the night to make sure they pull through on the other side when the sun comes to a rise.

And me?
My body won’t glisten.
And I’ll tuck myself into my bed whispering, “it’ll be okay.” Into the dark of the night.
And when the sun rises, I’ll find you there making pancakes and obsessing of the dream you had the night before and I’ll scream, “YOU’RE SAFE NOW.”

But it’ll go through your ears.
And get lost in your passion.
I’ll get lost in your passion.